


Snow

by SLWalker



Series: Midnight Blue [12]
Category: Midnight Blue - Fandom, due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1995:  Mike gets a call in the middle of the night that Turnbull's gone radio-silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> There are potentially triggering things in here, to include character death. I can't name them without spoiling the story, but I can say there's no non-con or kink-related warnings. Very directly relates to Here and Now in Arch to the Sky. There are spoilers, obviously, for what happened to Turnbull, though the picture is not complete.

"Sir, I'm not entirely certain that our professional association would survive when faced with such a foe as _curling_."

Only Turnbull could come up with a ten-dollar sentence like that just shy of midnight.

They had been patrolling together for the last few hours, though there hadn't really been much to do. So, when they passed each other, they pulled over to have a roadside chat; something to pass the time, even though both of them had their eyes open for trouble. It was cold out; the wind stirred between the cruisers and in through the open windows, and the clouds passed across the moon like smoke. It was as good a time as any to ask Turnbull to go curling, and so Mike had taken it.

Mike shrugged, mostly to himself. "Hey, I didn't dump Mitch into the river for making us lose last week."

Turnbull didn't even bat an eyelash. "I know that Guy Laurent is currently looking for a new rink..."

Mike looked over, staring in empty horror. "I think I'd rather take a stone to the head."

"He is very good, sir," Turnbull said, with that deadpan expression that Mike knew full well was hiding a grin. Turnbull's form of ribbing was understated and underhanded, and he had grown to use it to great effect over the past few years. "I could mention it to him."

God. Mike tried to picture it for half a second: curling with _Laurent_ , who would be followed by _Longfellow_. He only half faked the shudder as he said, "Don't you _dare_ , Turnbull." He tapped his thumb on 414's window frame. "Just think about it. You have the whole off season to decide."

"I shall give it my solemn consideration, sir," Turnbull answered, still too serious to actually _be_ serious.

Mike took that as a positive sign, smiling as he looked back out over First. "Okay, good."

Silence fell naturally there for some indeterminate amount of time, a comfortable silence, and Mike let it, letting his thoughts wander for awhile wherever they ended up wandering. It had been a quiet shift. Peaceful. No accidents, just a few calls, nothing requiring followup. No paperwork to linger into the wee hours of the morning. The weather was bound to warm up, too, and once the ice broke up on the river, he could get out his fishing gear. And heck, he might have even convinced Turnbull to come curling with him next season.

He closed his eyes for a couple moments, listening to 414's engine and the counterpoint harmony of 420's. Then he smiled a little, to himself, and glanced at the clock. Just enough time for one more quick circuit around town. "All right, I'm going to take another loop around, then head home."

"Have a good night, sir," Turnbull said, as he glanced over with his own smile, then put 420 in gear.

"You too." Mike gave him a salute. "Be safe, rook."

 

 

Nothing happened by the time Mike had parked 414, except that it started snowing. He tossed his duty bag into the passenger seat of his Celebrity, stifling a yawn, and sat while the car warmed up, letting his mind continue roaming. Curling with Turnbull, if it happened, which he imagined might be like hanging out with a kid brother. He thought about fishing when the ice broke up; he had tied some new flies over the winter he wanted to try out. He thought about Cindy, probably already asleep in bed.

He thought about future children and all of the apparent hoops a guy had to jump through to get to those children. And how awkward it was to get manhandled by perfect strangers checking out your plumbing to make sure you weren't shooting blanks. And _then_ how awkward it was when they asked you to fill a container, so they could count and categorize your sperm, sticking you in a room with a VCR, dirty tapes and dirty magazines, just to make sure you had plenty of incentive to do so. Like that would somehow overcome the fact that you were in a strange room with neutral gray walls and doctor's office style furniture, being asked to bring yourself off by people you didn't even remember the first names of.

Mike was pretty sure he'd never been more uncomfortable in his _life_. And that included the time that guy in Surrey kicked him in the balls with a steel-toed boot. If he didn't want children so bad, he would have probably been out of there the moment he realized the extensive plastic surgery their fertility doc had done.

Even so, he had to hold out some hope that the good, old-fashioned ways to make babies would work, even if they hadn't yet. If Cin was awake when he got in, and he was still awake enough to manage, maybe they'd give it another go.

He grinned a little to himself, pulling out of the back lot of the detachment. It was only a few minutes to his own door; back when he was in the LMD, he could sometimes end up commuting an hour or more, just to get to work. Here, it was just down the road, up a few blocks, down his driveway and that was it. He had kind of gotten addicted to the short commute; heck, if worse came to worst, he could _walk_ to work.

Cin wasn't awake when Mike got in, but that was all right. He just changed, went back downstairs, got himself the plate Cin had waiting in the oven for him, warmed it up. Sat at the kitchen table while he ate, and skimmed over the Journal; there was a story in there updating the good citizens of Nipawin on a case he had taken to court a few days ago, curling scores, a few other odds and ends worth glancing at. Once dinner was done, he went, brushed his teeth and crawled into bed, snuggling up to his wife's back and hoping to steal some of her body heat until the sheets warmed up enough on his side of the bed to be comfortable.

Outside, the snow was really coming down hard now; he could see the torrent in the scarce light, fine flakes hitting the window to melt or falling past it. He watched it for awhile, his breath falling mostly on-rhythm with Cin's.

It hissed against the glass, almost like rain. Pretty. Hypnotic, and pretty.

Mike wasn't even sure when he fell asleep; the sight and sound of the falling snow lingered in his mind long after his eyes had closed.

 

 

"Nn?"

_"Mike. Wake up."_

Mike tried to pry his eyes open, and failed utterly, not quite sure if he was awake or not. "Russ?"

_"Renfield's not answering radio traffic."_

Now _that_ was enough to jerk Mike out of his sleep. He forced his eyes open and turned to eye the clock, feeling Cin stir restlessly and automatically dropping his voice so she wasn't disturbed any further than the phone ringing already had done. It was 4:23; he hadn't been asleep more than a few hours. "Was he out on a stop?"

_"No. But dispatch tried to call him about fifteen minutes ago, and he didn't respond."_

Mike was already getting out of bed, even though he reassured himself that it could just be a radio malfunction. It wasn't unheard of. 420 was only a few years old, but the radio was older, recycled from her predecessor. He tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder, managing to reach to get his jeans from that morning off the hamper and pull them on over his shorts. "Want me to go looking?"

_"I have 414 warming up, I'll come and pick you up. These roads are atrocious, I could use the extra eyes. I called Sandy, and he's going to cover the call from home."_

"Ten-four, see you in a few." Mike hung up the phone and scrubbed a hand through his hair, then pulled a sweatshirt out of the dresser. On his way out, he paused for a moment, then took his gunbelt, too. Wouldn't be the first time he'd had to strap it on over his jeans, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

There was no point to worrying too hard yet. He wasn't convinced this was a crisis; instantly, the ducks all lined up in his mind, from best case scenario -- malfunctioning radio -- to the very worst case scenario -- fatality -- and arranged themselves according to timing, likelihood, Turnbull's skills, reflexes, abilities, the demographics of Nipawin and the surrounding areas, and the fact that there hadn't been a call to Russ about anything _bad_ happening yet. There was no such thing as a routine day as a police officer, and anything could happen, but Mike was willing to hedge his bets between a malfunctioning radio or maybe a cruiser in a ditch.

Mike was still antsy as he pulled on his patrol jacket and waited at the door for his cruiser's lights to come down the road, though. The snow had stopped while he was asleep. Once he saw 414, he didn't wait for Russ to pull down the drive, just headed out the front door and jogged out to meet him.

"Any word?" he asked, sliding into 414's passenger seat and trying not to feel too odd not driving his own cruiser.

"Not yet," Russ answered, pulling out and heading north. Somehow, Mike didn't know how, the man managed to look alert and unrumpled, even at this hour. "It might just be his radio."

"Maybe." Mike chewed on a thumbnail for a moment, thinking. "We should start on the outskirts."

"All right."

It was a hunch, but Mike's hunches were pretty good. He figured that if it was just a radio malfunction, by the time they found their way back to the detachment, Turnbull might already be there. Or, they'd pass him on the road and he wouldn't realize he was incommunicado. If he was off the road, then he would have likely called dispatch from the nearest residence; if he didn't, then it might be that he was too far from the nearest residence to have made it there yet. There were plenty of places in their area that would require a lengthy walk to the nearest phone, and it would be an even longer walk on a night like this.

Mike pulled his mic off the bracket, leaning over to switch the radio to Nipawin's private channel, then sat back. "Bravo four-fourteen, bravo four-two-oh."

He didn't expect a reply, really. But he figured that if Turnbull _did_ get back to the detachment with a malfunctioning radio, their in-office scanner would alert him that he was being searched for.

"Should we call out the fire department?" he asked, between calls.

Russ shook his head. "Not yet; give it another twenty minutes or so. 55 or 35?"

"Old 35. He usually loops up and comes back on 55, especially when the roads are bad."

Russ glanced over with a half-smile, and Mike didn't bother asking what it was for, just keying his mic again. "Four-fourteen, four-two-oh." Then he asked, "What was the call Sandy went out on?"

"Car versus mailbox."

"Not a cruiser, though."

"No."

Mike nodded. Kept trying to raise Turnbull on the radio, peering out into the dark. The roads really were bad; road crews would get 55 cleared off as quick as they could, but it would be awhile. Still, he could appreciate why Russ was requisitioning an SUV for the detachment, even if they were likely going to be waiting awhile. Mike's cruiser was solid, but he still felt the faint slide under him when they turned.

So far, nothing. All was quiet in town; they cut down through the center to get over to Old 35. No Turnbull on patrol, though; Mike looked at the detachment as they passed, and Turnbull's sedan was in the parking lot. 418 was covered in snow. 420 wasn't there.

"Four-fourteen, four-two-oh."

Mike wasn't sure why not seeing 420 parked where she should be made him nervous. Especially since he knew she wouldn't be there; if she was, Turnbull would have grabbed one of the extra portables and let them and dispatch know he was fine.

He shook his head at himself. Getting anxious didn't do any good. Even as he called again, he ran down the possibilities, and again the ducks lined up, though now it was starting to edge more towards 'cruiser off the road' rather than 'broken radio'. He wasn't even sure why. Turnbull was really good behind the wheel, had never had an accident; Mitch had been a Mountie more'n a decade longer and managed to ditch 418 three times since being transferred to Nipawin. Admittedly, at least that was _before_ Mike threatened to skin him like a deer if anything happened to 414. Hadn't had an accident since.

Still nothing, on the radio or the roadside. They crossed into the darkness of the world beyond the town's edge, and turned onto Old 35; if Turnbull ended up off the road anywhere, it would probably be on the other side of the bridge.

Mike was just starting to call again when he saw the tail lights, parked just past the middle of the black industrial spider-web of the bridge. He pressed back against the seat a little, unconsciously, eyebrows drawing together.

...

They were _420's_ tail lights.

 _"Russ,"_ he said, putting the mic back in the bracket without looking, his other hand already on the door handle, a hard jolt hitting him somewhere in the chest and then running down his arms.

The door was open. The cruiser was running. _The door was open._

Russ muttered a curse and pulled up behind the idling cruiser, and Mike didn't even wait for Russ to put 414 in park before he got out, coming around between them to come up on the driver's side of 420, slowing down, wiring up.

It was empty.

It was everything _wrong_.

"Turnbull?!"

Russ was coming up, too; the only sound that came back was the sound of the engines on two cruisers idling. 420's heater was running full-blast.

There were prints.

Russ called out, "Renfield!"

"Okay, okay," Mike said, under his breath, looking along the line of the headlights where the vanishing, wind-drifted footprints were headed. In the reflected light of two sets of headlights, under the drifting snow and cold wind, the plumes of exhaust casting shadows, the bridge looked almost like it was _moving_.

In the reflected light of two sets of headlights, the only thing that wasn't moving was the body on the rail.

_Oh, God._

"Turnbull!" Mike wasn't even quite aware he was in motion until he was up on his rook; Russ was barely a pace behind him. He hit the piled drift of snow against the cross-hatched railing, felt the icy metal under his hand, felt Turnbull's solid form barely rock when Mike nearly skidded into him. "Turnbull! What happened?"

Silence.

"Turnbull?" Mike asked, overlapping Russ's, "Renfield?"

Turnbull didn't move, and barely seemed to _breathe_ ; he stared down at the river, an expression of horror frozen on his face. If he heard them, it never showed; not a flinch, not a conscious blink. His knuckles and chin were bloody. It was only after a moment that Mike even realized that Turnbull was shivering. He looked past to Russ, who was looking over the edge of the rail, then back to Turnbull again. Reached out, hesitated, then gave him a little shake on the shoulder. "Turnbull...? C'mon, talk to me."

Russ got on his portable, but Mike didn't really hear what he said. He looked back at the cruisers, down at the river -- dark, mottled, about to break up, there was a hole... -- and then at Turnbull again, leaning out to really _look at him_ , more frantic. He gave Turnbull another little shake, something tightening in his chest with every breath. "...rook?"

"Renfield," Russ said, voice steadier by far than Mike's, reaching out and taking Turnbull by the upper arms and giving him a pull; Mike felt it through his own skeleton, and startled back half a step, gaze darting between the two. " _Renfield._ Come on, now."

"Russ..." Mike started, but then Turnbull _moved_ , stumbling, staring wild-eyed between them without really seeing them, like he was in the middle of a nightmare and not awake at all, and Mike reached out and caught onto him to keep him upright, practically babbling somewhere between relief for some response and _fear_ , "Okay, okay. It's okay."

"Get him back to the building." Russ nodded towards the cruisers. "Take four-two-oh."

Mike jerked his gaze back to Russ, blinking, tightening his grip on Turnbull's coat, a rush of protests all vying for voice at once. "Russ-- what-- we have to--"

 _"Mike,"_ Russ said, still a calm Mike couldn't _fathom_ , though the tone was that... that kind, patient tone, "take him back, get him warmed up. Trust me, I can handle this; you look after him."

Later, when Mike would wake up out of a dead sleep, his answer into the darkness long after it mattered would be, _"No."_

Now, feeling unhinged and lost, he nodded and got an arm around his rook, leading him in stumbled, numb steps back to 420.


	2. Part II

Staying calm in bad situations wasn't a problem for Mike. Walking into a crime scene where someone might try to kill him, or where he might find a body or worse, was something he did with ease; alert, ready, but not afraid. Fear just didn't enter into the equation for him, not on duty. He'd taken more than a few beatings -- more than a _bunch_ of beatings -- in his time, and not a single one of them had ever actually frightened him. He had seen things that could crack the hardest hearts; things that made him go home and have to sit with his head in his hands and breathe. But even then, he was never _afraid_.

A lot of cops got jumpy after being hurt. Mike even knew a few who ended up going out on permanent leave or disability, too rattled by a particularly bad call to keep doing their jobs.

But he was never one of them. When he walked into a bad situation, everything resolved to perfect clarity, and he was ready. Off-duty, in his personal life, that was different; there, he knew what fear was, he knew how to be afraid, but the two had never met.

Until now.

Mike Chase was scared.

He got them back to the detachment and got Turnbull inside, sitting him at the desk by the radiator and wrapping a blanket around him. He went to get warm water; Turnbull's hands were frostbitten, but not nearly as badly as Mike had expected them to be. Mild frostbite, thankfully. He went to make tea, something herbal. He moved, he acted, he did, and then he came back and Turnbull was still staring off.

Except now, there were tears running unchecked down his face.

The shock of it physically _hurt_ , like someone had reached in and jolted his skeleton, got ahold of something in his chest; bypassed the outside and reached _in_ , and Mike nearly dropped the water he was holding. In an instant, everything in him wanted to _run_ , and in the next instant, everything in him wanted to curl up and hide under a desk, and in the last instant, he moved, shushing and shushing without even realizing it, setting the water on the desk and reaching out to awkwardly pet at one of Turnbull's shoulders, trying to soothe the tears away.

Turnbull looked up at him, wide-eyed. Desperation. Destruction. It was, by far, the most emotionally raw expression Mike had ever seen on Turnbull's face, and it clawed through his own chest.

"I'm sorry," Turnbull said, plaintive and pleading, begging for something only he could ever know through chattering teeth. _"I'm sorry."_

When Russ showed up, God only knew how long later, Turnbull had sobbed himself half-senseless into Mike's shoulder, and Mike was still holding onto him, shushing and patting on his back and trying desperately to figure out how to pick up the pieces to put them back together, and cutting himself on every one.

 

 

The only one capable of dealing with things steadily was Russ.

Mike wasn't sure how that happened.

Even on being questioned, Turnbull didn't have anything. What few words he managed to get out were disjointed, disoriented, and not for the first or tenth time, Mike thought they should have taken him to the hospital. But after Turnbull had cried until he was barely awake, shivering and looking lost, but at least more _present_ , Russ told Mike to take Turnbull home; that maybe some warmth, and some sleep, would help where tea and rewarmed hands and blankets and soft words hadn't.

Mike was still reeling. Trying to grab hold of one thing, anything, to treat this like any other investigation or case or crime scene. And he couldn't.

Sometimes, he realized he was _still_ shushing intermittently, compulsively; the last expression of fear he couldn't quite get a grip on, and couldn't quite get rid of.

Turnbull let himself be lead around. Even though the sobbing had stopped, the tears hadn't. He stumbled when he walked, and Mike kept a grip on him to keep him steady, getting him back to his rented room and managing to keep the landlady from asking too many questions by asking her to make a pot of tea. To her credit, she did.

Mike had never been there before. It was as neat as he expected. Just a bed, a couple nightstands, a desk, a dresser, uniforms and civilian clothes in the closet, and a stuffed husky sitting on the mirror. The second he let go of Turnbull, Turnbull sank down to sit on his bed, curling back up around himself in the posture he couldn't seem to pull himself out of. Mike fidgeted for a moment. Got the tea from the landlady, intercepting her at the hallway door, then bringing it back to set on the nightstand.

He didn't know what to do. Every step seemed to lead further from the world they knew, and into some place there was no coming back from. Moments of clarity, action, and then moments where it _hurt_ , and Mike couldn't get why it hurt; it wasn't like he had never been there when a colleague had something bad happen before, had never seen one of his rooks get beaten up in some way. He'd even seen Turnbull take hits before; that was part of being a cop. Had seen Turnbull after he'd had a particularly awful call, red-eyed and clearly hurting, but still contained, still in a place where a cup of tea and silent companionship was enough.

This was different.

"C'mon, you should lay down," he finally managed to say, and his own voice breaking the silence just made the anxiety worse.

Turnbull didn't even seem to hear it; he just sat there, staring off, somewhere else again. Silent tears. After he realized he wasn't going to get an answer, Mike forced himself to move, tugging Turnbull out of his jacket, and getting his gunbelt off, and then his tac boots. It was only when he gave Turnbull a gentle nudge in the shoulder to lay down, that his rook came back again.

The look in his eyes hurt no less this time than it had the first.

Mike would have taken a bullet, if it would answer that silent desperation, that silent pleading, and make it right again.

When Turnbull was curled up on his bed, covered over and sobbing muffled into his pillow, Mike went back to shushing and shushing, and he wasn't sure anymore which of them it was meant to soothe; it took everything he had in him to not bury his face in his own hands.

 

The detachment looked utterly normal, in the light of day. Mike wasn't sure why that felt so odd. Aside Turnbull's sedan being in the parking lot, everything was back to normal.

Sandy gave him a strange look. Mike blinked back at him, feeling dazed, then headed into Russ's office. He had stayed until Turnbull had fallen asleep, long enough for the sun to come up, long enough to make sure his rook was at least resting. Sat there through the jagged sobs, the ragged breathing, until it went even. Put Turnbull's coat and boots and gunbelt away, feeling absolutely, wrenchingly _helpless_ , and then slipped out. It was hard to leave him.

Russ was at his desk, talking on the phone. Mike sat down across from him, not quite able to relax, and fell to rubbing at his eyes while Russ was wrapping up the call.

He didn't hear the phone being set down on the cradle, and he wasn't even sure how long he was sitting there, but then Russ tapped him in the arm and handed him a mug of tea.

Mike looked at it, feeling the warm porcelain in his hands, then looked up. It took him a few long moments to remember how to speak. "Do we know what happened?"

"We're working on it. Are you all right?" Russ asked, raising an eyebrow, sitting down and resting on his elbows, on his desk.

Mike just nodded. Didn't get why he was being asked that question, really. Why Russ wasn't asking after Turnbull first. "I got him home. What have you got so far?"

"Someone went through the ice. We have a few leads." Russ was watching him, and Mike didn't quite know why it made him feel uneasy. It wasn't a mean look; quite the contrary, it was warm, and soft. Concerned.

"Well, hand them over. I can get started."

Russ shook his head. "Go home, Mike. Sandy and I can handle this."

Mike frowned, shaking his own head in answer. "I should be on it. C'mon, Russ. Give me the leads, let me do followup."

Russ dropped his head, looking at his desk. When he looked back up, there was something serious, inflexible in his expression. "Mike, I don't want you on this one. I want you to go home, get some sleep, check on Renfield later and leave Sandy and I to handle it."

"I'm your best investigator," Mike said, after a long moment where the uneasiness got worse. "Let me do my job."

That seemed to do the trick. They stared at each other, then Russ sighed, a pale imitation of his usual exasperation, but it still made Mike feel a little better. A little like he hadn't just stepped off the edge of the universe, following his rook down. Then Russ pressed his mouth into a line and nodded. "On one condition: You go home, you take the rest of today off, you look after Renfield, and get some rest. I'll fill you in on everything tomorrow when you come in."

Mike didn't care for those terms, and his face must have reflected that, because Russ added, more gently, "He needs you more than we do right now. Do this for me, Mike."

It was something that Mike couldn't have refused, even if he had wanted to. He didn't know at the time that he'd never be able to forgive himself for it.


	3. Part III

There was a little girl's mangled, pregnant body laying on the slab.

She was fifteen years old, she was eight months pregnant, and her body had been beaten nearly unrecognizable by the ice breakup on the Saskatchewan River. She was pulled out of the river downstream from the bridge, where she got tangled up in debris. They found her fast; everyone on the river had been informed someone had gone in and to keep a lookout, and she was pulled out by some volunteer firemen.

Cause of death was a broken neck, not drowning.

Somewhere in his mind, Mike recorded everything the coroner was telling them. But Russ was the one who did the talking; he was composed, though there was misery in his eyes when he looked at the broken body of the girl and her unborn baby.

Her name was Jessica Phillips.

Turnbull had been asleep still when Mike had stopped back to check on him before going home. When Mike went back that evening, Turnbull had been awake. Still barely there, still unable to really _speak_ much, but he had gotten himself together enough to change out of his uniform and enough to look uneasy and shaken by Mike being at his private residence. Trapped between staying and trying to help, and clearly making Turnbull even more uncomfortable than he already was, Mike left again and spent a good chunk of his night wandering around his own house, restless and anxious, until even Cin went to bed.

"We have a suicide note," Russ had said, when Mike came back in the next day, and handed it over. Written in loopy, though unsteady handwriting, it was from a girl to her parents, and it started off composed, but by the end all it said was _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ again and again.

Mike looked up from the note, eyes wide, and met Russ's grim face.

"She was pregnant," Russ said. "Eight months. She refused to name the father, and begged for an abortion in the early months. Her father's a deacon at the Lutheran church. They'd taken her to counselling, but she was struggling."

Mike looked down at the note again. But all he could see in his mind was the horror-filled, stricken look on Turnbull's face as he stared down at the hole in the ice.

"Mike..." Russ waited until Mike made eye contact again, then said, "He wasn't there."

"He was," Mike said, confused, on a delay. Nothing about that statement made any sense.

Russ shook his head. "No, he wasn't." A beat. "And neither were you."

There was a little girl's mangled, pregnant body laying on the slab.

Mike had been fighting with anxiety for well over twenty-four hours by that point, and Russ's words hit him like a pole axe. He felt his mouth moving, but no words came out. He felt... he felt... they _were_ there, Turnbull had probably even _witnessed_ the girl jumping, and God, oh God, no wonder he was levelled, no wonder he was devastated. "Russ..." he said, dragging in air and trying to figure out how to say any of that, "Russ, he was there, I was there, you were there!"

"No. We weren't." Russ never blinked. His expression was calm, even patient, like he was waiting for Mike to figure out the answer to a question on some exam Mike hadn't known he was even taking. "I need you to think, Mike. What happens when the news gets this story. What happens when outside investigators find out. What happens when they find out there was a Mountie on scene, who didn't call in, who had bloody knuckles, with a pregnant girl who ended up in the river."

Mike shook his head, and couldn't stop shaking it. "No. No, Russ. No! Are you saying-- God--"

"Yes, they would. They would, and Renfield would be flayed. He would be flayed, Mike, and he would be defenseless against it. Because he didn't call in that he was out with her, he didn't report it after she jumped--"

"--he was in shock--"

"--he was _trained_ to handle things like this properly," Russ snapped, and Mike shut up and stared at him. "There's a pregnant fifteen year old, a young Mountie with busted knuckles, no call in, no report, no witnesses. Mike. You know exactly what would happen."

Mike started shaking his head again. He did know how it could look, but that wasn't everything. Because Turnbull had done nothing wrong. Turnbull was _incapable_ of doing anything on the magnitude that Russ was suggesting it could be interpreted as. The truth would come out, and Mike would be there; they could protect Turnbull while the truth was being found out. Because covering it up... covering it up...

Russ looked down, his shoulders slumping, and when he looked up again, regret was written all over his face. "The report was finished yesterday. You weren't there. He wasn't there. I took the call from her parents in the morning -- which is the truth -- and found the hole in the ice. I've informed everyone downstream on the river to keep an eye out for her body."

He paused for a long, long moment. The silence was suffocating. Then Russ said, "If you want to whistleblow on me, Mike, you can. But you'll be sacrificing your rook, too. There's no harm in hiding this. She jumped, we know that; destroying more lives won't bring her back."

There was a little girl's mangled, pregnant body laying on the slab.

That had been two days ago. Mike didn't really remember the time in between. He had went out after Russ had said that, and sat in his cruiser, and tried to breathe around panic and disorientation and fear and heartbreak. He had patrolled, and answered calls, and managed to do so competently. He had checked on Turnbull, who seemed to at least be able to eat and move for himself to some degree, though he looked like he was barely doing it on autopilot. He had made sure Turnbull knew to take a few days off, too. He tried to drag out words or... or _anything_ to tell his wife, to do something for his rook, to give some kind of voice to it all. But he couldn't. In the end, he couldn't get away from it; couldn't get over the idea of sweeping snow and ice over what had happened, and what it cost them. And couldn't do anything about it, once it was already done.

Not for the young girl who left a loopy-lettered note pleading forgiveness, or for the young man who pleaded it outloud.

Now, he looked at the body. Not the first body he had seen dead, mangled. Not even the first pregnant body. But it was different. She was battered, fractured; laid out now with a white sheet over her, over her round belly, and at least her face had remained intact, preserved by the cold and left mercifully untouched by the broken ice. But she was so young. A child with child.

In death, under the care of the coroner, she looked at peace.

 _I hope so,_ Mike thought, unbidden, and then managed to excuse himself quietly before anyone could see him break down.

 

 

Turnbull came into work that night.

Mike already had a pot of tea on.

They stood against the counter, like they had countless times, but there was no ribbing this time. No report of what had happened on the afternoon shift, no good-natured banter, not even the comforting silence that had followed bad calls of the past. They stood there like they had countless times, but it was different. Turnbull looked more steady on his feet, but something in his eyes was wrong. Shattered. Not all there. His hands trembled around his mug, and he had to hold it both-handed. His knuckles were scabbed over.

There was a little girl's mangled, pregnant body laying on the slab, being prepared by the coroner for transfer for a funeral. In town, there were two parents reeling in grief and shock. Across town, Russ was probably sitting in his kitchen long after he normally would have been in bed. In the filing cabinet, there was a signed report that they hadn't been there for any of it.

Here, there were only the pieces to try to pick up, and the cuts they felt on every one.


End file.
